Friday, 16 May 2008

Crackney and Neasden

Last night went to two events on Broadway market, Hackney: The first, some kind of opening at Art Vinyl, I heard the Hackney choir sing 'Sex n drugs n rock n roll', I think I might join. I was introduced to the editor of The Eel magazine, which publishes stories from the Hackney area. Plus I met Oxfam Steve, the manager of the biggest London Oxfam, in Dalston. What are the strangest things you've had donated? I asked. "A large pot of cock rub, coloured bright blue and a defillibrator". We pondered whether the defillibrator machine is needed after using the cock rub. Then I followed Naked John down to the new "yummy mummy" designer dykes soirée at the bike shop on the canal. Bike shops tend to be quite masculine so it was refreshing to see so many lipstick lesbians in one place.Today I drove to Neasden to teach my favourite pupil, a 15 year old Asian girl, 19th century romantic poetry. We compared First Love by John Clare and To My Coy Mistress by Andrew Marvell. I love teaching this girl. I actually get paid to discuss poetry and love. Her take is so innocent but so wise.

First Love I ne'er was struck before that hour With love so sudden and so sweet, Her face it bloomed like a sweet flower And stole my heart away complete. My face turned pale as deadly pale. My legs refused to walk away, And when she looked, what could I ail? My life and all seemed turned to clay.

And then my blood rushed to my face And took my eyesight quite away, The trees and bushes round the place Seemed midnight at noonday. I could not see a single thing, Words from my eyes did start -- They spoke as chords do from the string, And blood burnt round my heart.

Are flowers the winter's choice? Is love's bed always snow? She seemed to hear my silent voice, Not love's appeals to know. I never saw so sweet a face As that I stood before. My heart has left its dwelling-place And can return no more

John Clare was a poor farmer who fell in love with a rich mans' daughter. This poem is both lyric and a lament. The shock of first love is tempered with almost immediate grief, for he knows this love is unrequited. He eventually died penniless in an asylum.

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Supper Club: Recipes and notes from the underground restaurant

"The hundreds of diners who've attended one of Rodgers's supper clubs (aka Ms Marmitelover, she is one of the pioneers of the movement in the UK) will be able to confirm, between satisfied burps, that she cooks the kind of food that people really want to eat. This is a beautifully designed collection of some of her most successful menus. Resistance is futile."

The Guardian on Supper Club: recipes and notes from the underground restaurant (Dec 2011)

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